


Of Beards and Bets

by Strange_johnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beards (Facial Hair), Boys Kissing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Idiots in Love, Isolated in 221B, Kissing, M/M, Martin Freeman's beard is my sexuality, No Angst, Parenthood, Quarantine, Romance, This fic does not contain explicit smut and I'm sorry, This is basically the boys being silly, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Vignettes of domestic bliss, being silly, it's for an experiment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23492566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strange_johnlock/pseuds/Strange_johnlock
Summary: This fic was inspired by the videos Ben and Martin did for the NHS. And especially the beards … :PThe residents of 221 decide to self-isolate, and Sherlock has found a way to make quarantine more fun for all of them.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 38
Kudos: 138
Collections: Sherlock Fandom VS 2020





	Of Beards and Bets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SherlockWatson_Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/gifts).



> Thank you, Kat, for helping me out on this <3   
> And to all the lovely people on twitter for cheering me on :*

John Watson is too much of an army man to not follow an order, not when it’s said in that voice. His hand freezes just centimetres from his own face, fingers covered in foam.

“Stop.”

Recovering from the shock, John lets his arms fall, eyebrows raised in the mirror for Sherlock to see. The detective is still wearing his pyjamas, his blue dressing gown lazily draped over his shoulders and John takes a moment to appreciate seeing him that ruffled.

“It’s not poisoned, is it?” He inquires, pointing his chin at his own reflection, cheeks already covered in white foam. And it is a reasonable question. He has been living with Sherlock Holmes long enough to expect anything.

“Well…” Sherlock steps further into their small bathroom, bare feet making a familiar sound against the tiles. And by god, he would need to be a much stronger man to not turn around and place a big dollop of shaving cream on one of those sharp cheekbones.

“Guess we are both going to die then,” John shrugs his shoulders, as Sherlock rubs at his face, looking so utterly affronted. John can’t help but chuckle, which ruins the serious expression he was going for. Not that anyone would ever believe any acting done by John Watson, especially not Sherlock. He’s too clever for that. He knows John too well. And in small moments like this, both still half asleep at seven in the morning, John is reminded of how lucky he is to be back here, in this flat, with this man. 

“Oh, nothing that bad,” Sherlock finally says, pushing John aside to wash his hands. “We will just be glued to the toilet for about two weeks.”

“You are a disgusting man.” John grins, starting to push back, and a little scuffle develops, during which John almost forgets that he had planned to shave. He remembers, when as punctual as clockwork, the neighbour next door opens their screeching bedroom door.

Freeing his hand from Sherlock’s grip, he retakes his stance at the sink, with a lanky detective wrapped around his back. “so, what is this all about?”

He glances up to meet Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror, and god, they look ridiculous, John’s face smeared with white foam, half of which ended up on Sherlock’s bathrobe. Something serious crosses the taller man’s face.

“Well, I have a series of experiments planned to...” He clears his throat, “...to get me through the three impending weeks of self-quarantine.”

John feels his own mood dampen, the thought of being trapped in their four walls with a toddler who had just discovered temper tantrums, is scary. Yes, he’s happy that they are all healthy, that they are not alone somewhere, that, if they get infected, they are very likely to survive it without much fuss. Still, it’s going to be difficult, and John had been happy to just be able to ignore it for a few minutes. 

“And… I am part of that experiment in what way?” He asks, not sure if he wants to be.

“It is more of a bet.” Sherlock reaches up and around him to open his side of the cupboard to get one of his fancy hair products. “We could see who grows the better beard. We both shaved on Monday, didn’t we? That makes it fair game.”

John can’t hold back the laugh that escapes him with a huff. “Why would you enter a bet that you can’t win?” he has seen him in a beard, after all. Well, more of a five-o’clock shadow, all gingery and curly, and it changed his entire appearance, turned him from Sherlock to Shezza.

“Well, I have never seen you with one… and mention the moustache. We don’t talk about it in this house.” Sherlock continues his morning routine, while John can only stare at him, unmoving. “Which means, there is no evidence that suggests to me in any way that you could work one.”

“Oh, I can.” John’s ambition is flaring up. He is competitive by nature. “I’ll grow the best damn beard you have ever seen.”

And that is just the reaction Sherlock wants, John realises, but it is too late. The detective’s eyes are already filled with the glee of a mad man. “Well, then, Doctor Watson. The game, as they say, is on.”

* * *

In the chaos that is self-quarantine, their bet is a source of joy. John catches himself glancing at the mirror more often than he usually does, or scratching his chin, proudly noticing that his beard is growing a bit every day.

He notices Sherlock’s looks too, notices how the detective seems to take in every new hair that has broken through John’s skin, where his own cheeks are just yet showing the first traces of a five o’clock shadow. 

“Good things take a while,” is the only thing he says, when John teases him about it, and his lower lip forms into a lovely pout that John just has to kiss away. And that, now, makes lovely little rasping sounds, which adds an entirely new excitement to an already lovely snog. John would have loved to explore this more, to rub his cheeks against other parts of Sherlock’s body, but there is a toddler present and a very observant one at that. So, John pulls back after a bit, tracing a thumb over Sherlock’s cheek, and ends their little intimate moment.

Immediately, Sherlock hurries over to his spot on the kitchen table, opens a small notebook and scribbles something down. John has never seen that one before, and he makes a deduction of his own. This is all about Sherlock’s experiment, maybe about how the sensory input changes with the way their beards grow or something. Sherlock will surely tell him about it, when it’s done, and until then John is looking forward to getting kissed a lot. And to be looked at by those intelligent, clever eyes, have the thrill of them taking in every detail about his face.

* * *

“There’s a blond one.”

“John,” Sherlock stretches his name out in annoyance, or fondness, John can never be sure. “Please take this seriously.

“I am, love. There is a blond hair. Right here.” He tugs at it a bit. “Rest of them are gingery, some brown ones, but this one is …”

“Yes, yes, I get it. Blond.” Sherlock moves to lean over his notebook. “That means we have identified at least six different shades.” He looks up at John, eyes gleaming. “Point for me, I’d say.”

“Oi,” John looks over at their improvised tally sheet pinned to the wall just above the sofa. He’s leading in length and thickness, but Sherlock already has a point for softness, and one in the category where they had Rosie touch their faces and determined by her expression which one she likes better. “I have at least ten grey’s in there.”

“Nope,” Sherlock pops the p at the end. “There are three, plus the white. I win.” He gets up, and in his mind John can already see him walk across the room, over the table and onto the sofa, to leave another thick, black line next to the category ‘colour’, taking the lead.

He’s up, before Sherlock can make a step, catching him by the hips and tugging him backwards, which has the lovely effect of John ending up with a lap full of detective, chest to back, as he sits back down in his chair.

“I’m not handing this off to you that easily. We need to consult someone, an expert. Artists, they know about shades, right? I’m sure…”

“Oh, stop being ridiculous, John. I have worked with hair before; I know it almost as well as I know ash.” Sherlock leans back, rests his head against John’s shoulders. He knows he has won, the bastard, and now he’s getting all snuggly. John willingly gives up the fight, pulls him even closer.

* * *

“God, John, stop.” Sherlock’s voice is filled with laughter, and John looks up his long, pale torso.

“That’s not the begging I was aiming for.” The doctor places another kiss to the spot just under Sherlock’s belly button, eliciting another fit of giggles from the detective. He looks beautiful, one arm thrown over his head, as the other has found its way into John’s hair, whether it is to pull him closer or push him off, he is not sure.

“Your stubble tickles, John.” John raises an eyebrow. He can’t get enough of the sight of Sherlock, his eyes wet with laughter, and his chest blotched red with arousal, and the playfulness of this moment makes John even more fond of his man.

“Hmmm,” John trails a finger over his Sherlock’s thigh, and up to his hip. He wants to tease, wants to bring up the bet and how it was Sherlock’s idea, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans up for a soft kiss to plump lips, already swollen red.

“Hmm, I really wanted to suck your cock.” He whispers, lifting himself up a bit on his forearms to look down at Sherlock. The last time he saw him with a beard, it was in a drug den, face thin and with dark circles under his eyes. Now, the dusk of hair around his mouth and on his cheeks makes him almost look young, softens the sharp angles of his features.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock reaches up, fingertips warm against John’s neck, and he is still chuckling. “Just feels strange against my belly.” 

“Well,” John hums, and he is teasing a bit now, as he turns his head to rest his cheek into the palm of his partner’s large hand. “Looks like we have to do this,” He licks along the side of Sherlock’s thumb, base to tip, before he sucks it into his mouth. “Another time.”

The gesture makes Sherlock arch his back, rocking his hips up, seeking friction, and it elicits a moan from the detective’s throat, which soon shifts into an affronted huff. “That is not… you can still do that,” He gestures at John, then his own lower body. “Just no tickling, please.”

And when does John ever get a ‘please’ from his genius?

* * *

The first thing John does is to unwrap Sherlock’s scarf, taking another lung full of the detective’s scent, before he hangs it on the hook in the hallway. His jacket follows, and he steps in front of Mrs. Hudson’s to place her bag of groceries in front of it. He knocks, waits for her reply through her door and they have a quick chat. He misses her, misses going down for chats and biscuits, but protecting her is more important now.

After opening the kitchen door with his elbow, John’s first way is towards the sink to wash his hands. He can hear some shuffling sounds from the living room, the door to which is closed and as he dried his hands, John was already imagining the shenanigans going on there.

“We are masters of the waves.” He hears Sherlock yell, and Rosie says “Arrrr” in a not yet very scary way.

Pushing the folding door back a bit reveals Sherlock standing on the sofa table, an old looking saber in hand and a surprisingly convincing tricorn hat. The beard, gingery and quite pronounced by now, adds to the picture of the fearless and rough pirate captain, and were John a seaman, he would have joined his crew immediately. And if he needed more convincing, there is a very cute second pirate sitting against the captain’s hip, waving her hands madly. Her blond curls are just peeking out behind the scarf she has wrapped around her head and there is a red streak on her cheek, very likely painted on with lipstick, to prove she’s a fierce fighter.

“Ah, the ship’s cook has emerged from the galley.” Sherlock notes with a quick look at John. “The men are hungry.”

“Oh, are they?” John chuckles, and Rosie breaks her role for a moment to reach out for him. Sherlock transfers her into his arms, and John gets a cuddle from the queen of pirates. “What does the crew want, then?”

“Pasta.”

“Pasta, ey? John smirks. “Favourite food to all pirates. I’ll see what I can do.”

With that, he let’s Rosie get back to her very important job and returns to the kitchen. As he stores away the groceries and starts cooking, his mad flatmates conquer the sea, and John happily listens to them shout and jump off and on the table. They are doing well, he realises. All of them together, they are handling this situation as well as they can, and in moments like this, he knows his family will get through this.

* * *

“You touch my face approximately 30% more since I started growing my beard.”

The comment makes John lower his head from the screen of the TV down to where Sherlock is resting his head on his thigh.

“Oh?” He simply says, and it is only a sign of politeness, as the detective would have rambled on anyway. He does it, because he cares, and he wants Sherlock to know that he could talk about anything, John would still listen.

“Yes. And it is not only like now, when you comb your fingers through my hair and extend that touch to my cheeks from time to time.”

“Hmm, maybe it’s just because we spend more time stuck together, now.” John muses, deliberately letting his knuckle graze down and over the fine hair. It really is soft, and John wouldn’t be surprised to find some sort of beard oil hidden somewhere.

“I have considered that fact in my calculations, John.” His name, said like this, means ‘don’t be an idiot’.

“Course you have.” John lets his finger rest against his lower lip for a moment, then is distracted by the girl in the film, who starts singing and makes Rosie giggle and hum along. She isn’t usually allowed much screen time, with the occasional Disney movie being the only exception, and this is her favourite.

“Any other results so far?” He asks, once he can tear his eyes from his daughter, waving her little hands. The smile he gets for that is loving, almost thankful, and John wonders how often people have refused to listen to anything Sherlock is excited about, shrugged it off as unimportant.

“Well, I have noticed a change in my own behaviour, even though it is difficult to be objective here.” Silver eyes open, blinking against the brightness of the TV screen. “I usually look at your eyes first. They are very attractive, and I also use them to gage your mood. But now, I catch myself focusing on your mouth more.”

“You do?” John catches himself as he licks his lips.

“Yes. I like what the beard does to it. Makes the shape of your lips stand out.”

“And that’s good?”

“Yes. You are very attractive with your beard, John.”

John leans down to kiss him, the angle a bit awkward. “Do I get a point for that, then?” He asks and gets nudged in the belly for it.

* * *

They are tied, now. Sherlock won the categories texture and colour, and has earned himself an extra point in the Rosie-test, whereas John dominates in length, thickness and attractiveness. He’s especially proud of the last one, finding himself looking at himself in the mirror a bit more than he usually does. He feels confident, somehow, now that the five o’clock shadow has turned into a full-on beard. Sherlock helped him trim it, so they don’t look as much like cavemen, and John is really considering keeping it for a bit after their self-quarantine has ended.

John is so caught up in his thoughts, eyes fixed at their tally board, that he doesn't realise what Rosie is up to until it is too late. As soon as he turns his back on her, the little one has stopped painting her paper, instead applying the brush to his own face and when John turns back to her, she has what seems all colours of the rainbow applied to her cheek and chin, and she is grinning proudly up at her dad.

He knows he should be mad, should tell her off and hold a lecture about paper being the only thing to be painted on, but she looks so adorable, John can’t help but smile at her.

“Beard, Daddy.” Rosie says, pointing at herself then at John, and the doctor scoops her up and kisses her nose, still paint-less.

“Sherlock?” He calls, and a moment later, the detective emerges from the kitchen.

“Look, Da.” Rosie waves at him, and Sherlock’s mouth forms into a perfect ‘O’ shape.

“I think she’s got us beat in all categories, doesn’t she?”

* * *

John prints the picture of all three of them in their beards, cheeks pressed closely together, and places a copy for Mrs. Hudson to find the next morning. Her joyous laughter is audible up to their bathroom, where Sherlock Holmes is currently busy shaving. And John never gets to read his notes on the experiment, nor would he have understood them, but he learns two things of his own.

First, that agreeing to a bet with Sherlock will most likely turn out to be good fun.

Second, he prefers his detective clean shaven.

**Author's Note:**

> God, it was just so lovely to see Ben's face again <3
> 
> My twitter is @strange_johnlock


End file.
